Young Writer, Missing

Where are you now? With the audience silenced.
Can you return? Can I find you? The critics miss
Your beautiful voice speaking, drawing visions
Of life and time, of vision and hope, a woman in yellow.
Her hat as is held in place by a hand, a pin,
A ribbon. Slipping on and off the bus.
I miss you with the audience gone. Quiet air.
Friends are far apart these days,
Imaginary, real, internet friends, have life.
All kept apart by electrons rotating, holding hands
Turning in waltz time, 3/4 time, one, two, three
Heard beyond time as planets revolve blending with each other
Cosmos tracking galaxies, so the revolution
Relies on you, a woman scorned, no, not you.
You, a writer, spectator, talent, rider of buses
But someone said, and someone did. Hurting,
You left us, all alone, missing the train you
Put before us to ride, taught to negotiate with our souls.
I call you as your grandmother might, cheerfully
Near the clothes line, over a fence, worried
At tea with a friend. Where are you now?
Traveling back and forth, seeing a desert,
A plain, a woods. The Cat seeking your hand purrs.
Comfort from warm sunny days on the porch swing.
I read them over and over, your words, hoping that I'll see
A sign of life, a breath, star dust, your smile.
Are you coming back? Be brave. Words are only words.
But they live for us, grow as infants, loved,
Even when they scold, they love. Eyes smile, arms hug,
Don't leave, don't run away, by bus, train.

Post navigation

3 thoughts on “Young Writer, Missing”

Who is she Ann?? I have read this piece over and over and I see her as being perhaps any young woman..yet I can’t work out if it is perhaps you, a younger you perhaps, your description is so exacting in detail, you must know this person..
I want this young writer to reveal herself, return and catch the bus, the train,
Great piece Ann, intriguing yet sad and frustrating as well.
I sense I may have to stay with the theory, she could be any young writer..
She sounds so interesting Ann
I loved reading this story…

She’s a young woman I followed, who disappeared believing that what she had to say was not important. She had received a lot of criticism, and stopped writing. I couldn’t let that lie. So I wrote the poem for her, posted it on her website and waited.

She could have been me at many points in my life. Me in college, in the Army, as a young mother with all the comments that incurs. She could even be me now as I grapple with politics, the responses I receive because of stating what I believe. I find it harder and harder to write, and this is when I must write to stay sane.

She wrote me back, the young writer. She was surprised that someone cared. She’s writing again. I’m watching from the sidelines. Young voices should be listened to, they are our future forming. They’ll talk about things that in my generation we internalized. No one should have to live that way. There is another poem about women dancing I wrote and posted here. It’s a celebration of life by a group of island women who had formed a bond by believing together. I must go look for the name for you. The contrast is startling.